


The Life and Loves of Vernon Roche

by stcrmpilot



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, more tags to come, this starts out real rough for poor roche but it gets much better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: A series of short fics featuring Roche.Basically just any little concept that comes to mind, not necessarily updated chronologically. Content warnings for individual chapters are in chapter notes!
Relationships: Foltest & Vernon Roche, Foltest/Vernon Roche, Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46





	1. Dogged (Roche & Foltest)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Attempted suicide

"Get up!" The cot shakes as a sharp kick connects with its frame. "Damned lazy whoreson, get up already."

"Leave him!" hisses another voice. "He's under strict orders to rest until the sorceress–" 

"Don't give a shit about any sorceress, Foltest wants to see him."

"When it comes to the health of a patient, sir, I outrank you."

"And the ploughin' king? You outrank him too, now?"

"Fuck's sake, shut up," Roche mumbles, turning his face into his pillow for a moment until he can bring himself to open his eyes. 

The commander, Merric, glares down at him from his bedside, pointedly ignoring the sour look he's drawing from the medic. Roche does his best to give as good as he's getting; the man pisses him off, even through the stubborn fog of sleep. 

Scraping together the last of his strength—and bolstering it significantly with his annoyance at being woken like a dog—he gets an arm beneath him and pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. He groans quietly, bending over his lap as pain washes over him in waves. His head is pounding as if he downed a bottle of Mahakaman spirit by himself, his stomach aches with hunger even though he has no appetite. His left arm hangs at his side, limp, because every twitch of a muscle from his elbow to his fingertips sends pain lancing through him. He wants to be asleep. Unconscious. Whatever. 

"Done sleeping in?" Merric is regarding him with open disgust. 

"Yeah," Roche growls. "What does Foltest want?"

He scoffs. "Why should I know? To hand you over to the temple, that's my bet. Just get dressed. He's in his office."

Roche stubbornly doesn’t move until Merric has left the tent, glaring daggers at his back the whole way. Then he drags himself to his feet, wavers for a moment until his vision stops going grey, and snatches his shirt off the nightstand. 

The medic watches with disapproval as he struggles to do up the buttons of his overcoat. 

“Come back in the morning,” he instructs, “so I can change that bandage. And let Merigold look at the wound, she can help it heal with less scarring.”

Roche’s lip curls. “What do I care whether it scars?”

He  _ tsks  _ sadly, and Roche leaves with a new target for his irritation. 

The halls of the palace are lined with eyes—royal guards, nobles, peasants come to voice some petty complaint or another. They burn into Roche’s back as he makes his way up to Foltest’s office. It’s because of them that Roche’s heart begins to pound, he tells himself, them and their nosy fucking staring, and it’s out of anger that his body begins to tremble. He glares at the guards blocking his way into the office with every ounce of hatred he has in him, and feels a fierce stab of satisfaction when they flinch. Serves them all right for interrupting his rest. 

Foltest always finds it amusing when he gets worked up. Says he fusses too much, that he’ll worry himself right into an early grave. For once he would’ve liked to hear the admonishment, have his proof that not everything has gone to shit, but naturally he has no such luck. There’s nothing humorous in Foltest’s expression as he enters and makes his bow. 

“Vernon,” Foltest greets him, setting down his quill and standing from his desk. There’s a deep crease between his brows, and his eyes search Roche’s as he approaches. 

Roche frowns suspiciously in return, disturbed by the attention. “Your Majesty. I was told–”

“Yes, yes,” Foltest dismisses, “I know what you were told.” His gaze slips down, to the bandage just peeking out of Roche’s sleeve, and something flips over in Roche’s stomach. “Roche–”

“It’s nothing, sire,” he blurts out. “Nothing you should concern yourself with.”

Annoyance flashes in Foltest’s expression. “Oh, shut up. You’re going to tell me what to concern myself with? Bullshit.” He throws a hand in the air, pacing in front of his desk. “You make my job damn hard sometimes, you know that?”

Roche cringes inside, and does his best not to show it.

“You’d best get it through your head that the things you do reflect on me. You think I don’t get enough shit from the temple myself? I don’t ploughing need them baying for your head too.”

Shame makes his cheeks burn, and he lowers his head to let his chaperon partially obscure his face. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he mutters. “It was not my intent to trouble you.”

“Oh, I know.” Foltest pauses, and studies Roche strangely. “Your intent’s as much a mystery to me as anything on the Continent.”

“So have they?” Roche asks. “Come baying for my head.”

“Never thought you a religious man.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll be lashings, I suppose? A ritual cleansing?”

“They won’t be finding out,” Foltest says firmly. “You’re my soldier, I’ll damn well decide what to do with you.” He levels Roche with a grave look. “We both know lashings won’t help a thing.”

Roche finds himself unable to meet his gaze. His head is starting to spin from the blood loss.

“Vernon.” 

He feels sick. 

“Vernon. Look at me.”

Blinking, Roche forces himself to obey. 

“How bad is it?” asks Foltest. “Can you hold a sword?”

Roche makes a tight fist. It hurts like his arm is being split in half, but it proves his muscles and tendons are intact. “Yes.”

“Good. Yes, good.” For a moment Foltest seems to lose himself in thought. Then he heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache. “I don’t regret keeping them off your arse, you know. You’re a damn good soldier. I’d hate to lose you.” He leans close and grips Roche by the shoulder. “You hear me? Hm?”

“Yes,” says Roche, startled. 

Foltest steps back with an approving hum, and gestures sharply at Roche’s arm. “No more of this. No hanging, no drowning, no jumping from the fucking parapets. You’ve a job to do. Understood?” 

Roche’s throat tightens until it’s painful to swallow. The contents of his chest ache like they’ve been torn out by a fiend, and his eyes start to sting viciously. He nods anyway. 

“Good man.” Turning away, Foltest rounds his desk once more and sits. “Go rest,” he orders, picking up his quill. “Then I want you back here for the briefing on troop activities by the Ina.”

Roche swallows around the lump in his throat. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says quietly. And as he bows, he takes that rending feeling, he takes every horrid memory of the night before and he forces them out of his mind. He’ll face the rest of the palace with his mistake firmly in the past.

_ There’s work to be done. There’s work to be done. There’s work to be done.  _


	2. Negotiations (Roche/Iorveth)

Iorveth kicks his ankle under the table. “Stop that,” he complains, his voice appropriately lowered so as not to interrupt the meeting. 

“Stop what?” Roche asks, taking his eyes from the Nilfgaardian ambassador with considerable reluctance. 

“You’re–” he scrunches up his face, contorting his jaw awkwardly in an attempt to mimic Roche. 

“I’m not allowed to stretch my muscles?”

“Your joints are popping,” Iorveth mutters. “It’s disgusting.”

“ _ That’s _ the most disgusting thing you’ve seen?”

Iorveth huffs. 

Roche rolls his eyes and slumps back into his chair, his shoulder leaned up against Iorveth’s. “My head’s killing me,” he admits quietly. The movement makes it worse; he can feel his pulse in his temples, every beat bringing with it a surge of pain. 

“It’s because you grind your teeth all the time,” Iorveth says wisely. 

“I know,” Roche grumbles. 

“And you glare. And you could stand to get more sleep as well.”

Roche grumbles. Of course he’s glaring. He’s watching yet another of Emhyr’s lapdogs give yet another bullshit speech. Grudgingly, he relaxes all the muscles in his face, and is gratified to find some relief.

“I could probably hit him with a knife from here,” Iorveth offers. He’s looking appraisingly at the ambassador. “Then we could leave.”

Roche groans at the thought. “We’d have to run.”

“Only a bit.”

“And then what?”

“Hide in our rooms. I’d rub your back, if you like.”

“That can’t happen without the assassination?”

Iorveth shrugs. 

With a deep sigh, Roche squeezes his eyes shut. The Nilfgaardian’s voice still grates on his ears. He entertains a brief fantasy of pulling his chaperon down over his eyes to block out the light streaming from the massive clerestory windows, but sitting slumped in his chair is unprofessional enough, even though no one is paying attention to the two of them tucked away at the back of the room. He’ll simply have to wait. 

He’s bracing himself to open his eyes again when he feels Iorveth’s hand on his shoulder—a warning touch, making sure he isn’t startled. Then his fingers slip beneath the folds of Roche’s chaperon, stroking through the short hairs at the back of his neck. He uses his fingers and thumb to massage firmly at the base of his skull, and Roche goes limp with pleasure. 

“Better?” asks Iorveth, amused. 

“Mhm,” Roche mumbles, melting against Iorveth’s side as tension drains pleasantly from his body. “S’good.”

Iorveth huffs a quiet laugh. “No wonder you’re sore, your muscles are in knots.”

“Mm.” A drowsy smile has snuck onto his face, but Roche doesn’t care. He thinks Iorveth’s hands must be magic. “Guess you’ll have to do this more often, then.”

“That can be arranged.” Iorveth leans in close to whisper in his ear. “If you never make that sound with your jaw again.”

Roche savours the break from the pain for a moment longer, then cracks his knuckles. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://nbgeralt.tumblr.com)


End file.
